


Exodus: A Survivor Story

by c_waggles



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Human Jedi OC, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Order 66 (Star Wars), Order 66 Aftermath (Star Wars), Order 66 Fic, Original Character During Order 66, Original Character(s), Original Male Character - Freeform, Padawan OC - Freeform, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), Pre-Order 66 (Star Wars), future oc x, jedi oc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_waggles/pseuds/c_waggles
Summary: On the eve of victory for the Republic, Padawan Draven Seris envisions a return to peace, an end to war, and the rank of Jedi Knight upon his return from his first solo assignment. Little did he know how wrong things could go, in so little time, in so many ways...
Relationships: Original Character/Other(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Liminality

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first published work on ao3 so please feel free to comment your thoughts, but other than that sit back, relax, and enjoy!

Draven watched from the shadows as the Comtesse’s seventh meeting of the day dragged on into its second hour. His Jedi training had placed a heavy emphasis on the value of patience, but Draven was finding these incessant proceedings were starting to strain his carefully cultivated focus.

The Comtesse didn’t show any sign of sharing his distaste for the unending bureaucracy of it all. She could at least sit while he stood well back behind a thin veil of translucent fabric, but she never lost her poise, nor showed any signs of fatigue as the meeting dragged ever further into the night. Despite the aches of his legs and back, Draven’s sight never strayed from the nobleman across from the Comtesse. It was less the man’s speech he listened to, though he heard plenty of it, more the subtle tones and inferences of his mood and mind. The emotional ebb and flow and subtle whispers of thought were like a constant stream for Draven, though his Jedi senses were still somewhat unrefined.

“The last point I wish to discuss is this business with the Vorgetills and the Trenim, have you made any headway with a resolution that favours my administration or need I send a more… practiced hand to the task?” The Comtesse barbed. Her autocratic demeanour left little to the Nobleman’s imagination.

“We are close to an arrangement that should be satisfactory, I’ve arranged a sit down between the leaders of both houses and there should be a formal agreement reached within the month.”

“That will have to do, I expect an update on your progress within the week, now leave me.” The Comtesse turned her gaze to her desk while the Nobleman bowed his way out of the room. Draven waited in still silence will the Comtesse tapped at the holo-interface of her desk. After a few minutes of this the interface vanished and the Comtesse spoke once again. “You my come out now, Padawan.”

Draven stirred his crying muscles into movement and emerged from behind the veil screen, making his way around the desk to stand before it in the centre of the room. The décor was lavish with hand-sculpted marble walls and doorways, platinum finishing’s and furniture that no doubt equated to several lifetimes of work from the finest artisans. Draven felt almost actively belittled by the room which he did not doubt was the intended effect. Still, in his short life, even on the upper levels of Coruscant he had never seen such obscene displays of wealth as in that ‘office’.

He kept his gaze towards the floor at the foot of the desk until the Comtesse looked up at him. She was Comtesse of the Reshadan; a feathered, flightless people and staunch supporters of the republic. The Comtesse herself had white feathers with grey flecks, like a light snowfall on a mountainside. Her eyes were a commanding golden yellow and her beak was the colour of dark shale. Her dress was deep crimson and was intricately fastened over many layers of the finest fabrics. She had in her bearing and dress managed to capture both the very essence of regality and the threat of an apex predator.

“So, young Jedi, what of my latest supplicant?” The Comtesse asked directly.

“The Lord Serrafon was anxious to impress, by any means, and he has a hunger for-“

“Yes, yes, yes…” The Comtesse Interrupted, “He’s a power-hungry sycophant, he’s a noble, that is to be expected. Is there anything I need to know that is beyond the… obvious?”

Draven went to such lengths not to sigh that he did not even permit himself the luxury of doing so in his thoughts. Thoughts, he knew too well, could often betray a person.

“He’s not planning you any harm, so he does not interfere with my mandate… however he did exaggerate his chances with regard to the business dealings between the Vorgetills and the Trenim. He feels he may be able to profit himself by allowing the process to drag on longer than may be necessary which could jeopardise the arrangement, though he wishes to succeed both for his own ends and yours.” The Comtesse began to pace behind her desk and Draven dropped his sight once again to the floor, awaiting further address.

“So…” The Comtesse mused to the room, “I award him the opportunity of serving my administration in this regard and he sees fit to prioritise his own ends… This will not end well for him at all…” The Comtesse once again looked to Draven. “Was that everything of note?”

“Everything, Comtesse, unless you are interested in his personal life?” Draven asked. He permitted his thoughts the lightest tinge of sarcasm though he kept his voice level.

“Not in the slightest.” The Comtesse replied curtly. She once again seemed to Draven to be appraising him, though he decided he’d rather not know for what purpose. She seemed to give that look to most who held her attention but that made it no less unsettling to the recipient. After what seemed an overly lengthy pause she spoke again.

“When I requested a Jedi for my personal protection it didn’t even occur to me that they would send a mere Padawan, no matter how ‘ready’ the council deemed them… I must admit to feeling slighted at the time. Now, though… you have proven invaluable to me in my numerous negotiations of late, though threats to my personal safety have yet to make themselves evident, and with the war going as it is presently, I doubt I shall require your services for much longer.” Draven waited a moment before responding, not wanting to interrupt.

“Thank you, Comtesse, you are most gracious.” Of all the things the Jedi had prepared him for, royal protocol was not one of them. He had had to intuit and utilise caution to the extreme as he settled into this assignment; his first assignment. He had spent days preparing himself for innumerable threats, everything from separatist assassins to rabid kowakian monkey-lizards, but the most terrifying interactions so far had been with the Comtesse herself. Monsters and mayhem he could handle, but he was unfamiliar with the cold, calculated politics of this arena. The Comtesse looked for a while longer with her appraising eyes.

“I will not be requiring you for the rest of the evening, see to the security and report here in the morning.” The Comtesse returned to her desk and brought her display up, the padawan already gone from her thoughts. Draven bowed himself out with as much grace as he could muster, though without quite the practiced hand of the Lord Serrafon before him. As he entered the small, shadowed entryway with the reinforced entryway he could finally turn and face the direction he was walking, though he still waited to breathe his sigh of relief.

***

The heavy ironwood doors swung shut behind Draven, and with their heavy click he finally exhaled. His shoulders sagged for a moment as he began to run through his muscles and untense them a group at a time.

A chuckle from behind his right shoulder shattered his unwinding. The tone was a familiar one, and not just because he knew many near identical voices. He turned to see the captain of his clone detachment standing next to one of the Reshadan door guards, who also seemed to be smiling, though the beak made it hard to tell.

“I didn’t realise I was so funny, Piercer?” Draven bantered, rising his eyebrow.

“Oh, but of course sir,” The clone replied, “you could make a living of it of you wanted.”

“Well then,” Draven’s lips curled at the edge “sound’s like you owe me for the laugh then, buy me a drink? Things seem well in hand here.” If the Reshadan had had lips, Draven imagined they would have been pouting at the prospect of a beverage while being stuck on guard duty, but there they would stay; his carefully scrutinised security protocols weren’t going to falter over something as trivial as thirst.

“If you insist!” Piercer boomed with a smile as the two set off towards the mess hall of the Royal Estate. Draven had grown to enjoy Piercer despite himself. He took leadership in his stride and was a soldier through-and-through and yet whenever he spoke Draven could always hear a laugh beneath his words. A love of life and living that exceeded the bounds of the other clones he had encountered. After so long at the Jedi Temple, with only brief excursions with his master, Draven found the man to be a breath of fresh air.

The mess was relatively empty at that late hour; a few of the Reshadan Guard were about the place but most of the estate staff were abed already. Apart from Piercer there were no other clones present. There were only six in total assigned to Draven, posted throughout the estate, and those were the only ones in the entire region to Draven’s knowledge. Reshada had been hotly contested at the start of the war but that was three years ago; it had been securely in Republic hands for some time.

“Do you really feel there’s a credible danger to the Comtesse at this point, sir?” Piercer said, taking a seat at one of the several long tables with a glass of local ale.

“We wouldn’t still be here if there wasn’t a risk, Piercer.” Draven replied wryly, sipping his own drink.

“Yeah, I mean of course there’s a risk, but we’ve been here for weeks with not a clanker in sight. Not even a servant out of place for an afternoon. And with the news about Count Dooku…” Piercer didn’t have to say the rest. Draven was thinking it too. How long could the war _really_ carry on for? The Separatists were cornered. There had even been rumours that General Kenobi’s forces were due to engage the separatist General Grievous, though details of this were highly classified so this remained unconfirmed.

“I know how you feel Piercer but look at it this way; just a few more shifts of guard duty and we could be shipping off back to Coruscant.”

“And you with your first solo assignment under your belt. Reckon they’d start calling you a knight at that point?” Piercer smiled. Draven rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but to smile back.

“Possibly…” He said coyly.

“Ahhh peace in our time, huh? Never thought I’d see that. It’s weird for us clones, you know? This war’s all most of us have ever known.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves…” Draven’s golden eyes hardened on his drink “The war’s not over yet.”

***

The walk back to his quarters took Draven deeper into the Royal Estate. The rooms he had been granted were in the same wing as the Comtesse’s Apartments so as to allow a quick response in an emergency, the only issue with that being the lengthy walk from other areas in the estate.

It was clear to Draven’s mind that the architects had clearly meant for this area of what was for all intents and purposes a citadel to be incredibly difficult for assailants to access. As he walked, he thought once again about the many twists and turns the marble corridors took, often at irregular angles. Despite the elegant decorations, the estate was a cunningly designed defensive structure. It had made his job that much easier, but his muscles once again panged in protest after the lengthy day. He pushed on.

After turning a few more corners his door came into sight. His hand glossed over the door pad and the elaborate ironwood receded smoothly into the door frame in three segments. At long last he stepped inside.

The quarters were sparse compared to the rest of the estate; Draven kept few possessions save for clothing and a few other essentials. The rooms themselves however were large and constructed from the finest materials in keeping with the rest of the palace. The furnishings also were rich and lavish; the whole place was so completely contrary to what Draven had been raised to value that he had never felt entirely at ease, choosing to live out of his bags rather than unpack. His quarters did have one area that he allowed himself to indulge in. Past the many cushions, drapes, poster bed, desk, dressers, vanity, and an enormous mirror there was a large archway which he made a beeline for.

The bath.

The actual structure dominated an entire room unto itself. It was round in shape and seemed to rise up out of the marble flooring seamlessly. As Draven entered through the archway, golden glows began to shine in the corners of the room, projecting back onto the walls so as to provide a dim, soothing lighting effect. There were steps up to the rim of the circle and as the lights came on a holo-interface appeared to the right of the steps. Draven’s fingers keyed at the lights in the air, selecting a program of soothing oils and herbal fragrances. Water began to cascade into the tub from a circular inlet running all around the interior rim. Steam was just beginning to rise as Draven left the room.

Re-entering the main room, he walked over to the vanity and began removing things from his clothes. His communicator, rebreather, and his lightsaber were soon laid out on the surface space. His coat-wraps and tunic came off in short order, which he folded and placed on the end of his bed. Draven kept a strict routine, a welcome biproduct of his jedi upbringing, and he found that it was oddly reassuring for everything to be in its place and well maintained. His hands went to his long, dark hair, which he kept in a complex braid, and he began to undo the styling when his communicator began chirping incessantly. Walking quickly to the desk he pressed a large button at the top.

“Draven? Can you hear me? I had some trouble getting through.” A concerned female voice crackled through the communicator speakers.

“Yes, Master, you’re coming through now.” Draven’s lips pulled upwards at Fopava’s apparent struggle with the comms system.

“Ah, good. I need your assessment of the current situation on Reshada.”

“Everything has been proceeding as normal.” Draven placed the communicator down on the vanity and continued with undoing his hair as he spoke, “My security hasn’t encountered any evidence of a threat to the Comtesse, but we remain vigilant. The Comtesse herself prefers to keep me close, though whether as a security measure or to gain an upper hand in negotiation is… unclear.”

“Hmph,” Fopava grumbled.

“To be honest, Master, the most intriguing thing so far has been talk of the war’s progress elsewhere. We’ve heard… several rumours.” Draven’s hair finally unwound fully and fell to the small of his tanned back as he sat down at the vanity. A small pause fell. Draven’s eyes strained at the communicator, though he knew it would be unlikely to hasten a response.

“The rumours…” Fopava started slowly “are true… The 212th have engaged the Separatist forces on Utapau. Furthermore, we have received confirmation that Master Kenobi is combatting General Grievous directly.” Draven exhaled loudly as he leant his head back. Fopava’s words held galactic implications.

“If he’s successful, then…” Draven trailed off at the enormity of his line of thought.

“It is best not to speculate, Padawan. We have been close before. Focus on what is, not what might be.” For a moment both Master and Padawan were back on Coruscant years past, teaching and learning in a complex symbiosis. Draven realised the irony of the moment quickly.

“Yes master, I’ll keep my mind in the present.” Draven could almost hear his master’s eyes crinkle in a sarcastic smile.

“I will contact you with major news. Until then keep to your mandate. You have done exceedingly well with your assignment, Draven…” the communicator lay quiet for a moment, when Fopava spoke again her voice was layered with an implicative tone, “I’m sure the council will take _serious_ note of your success.” Draven took a moment to level his breathing before responding.

“Thank you, master. I will await further contact.” The communicator beeped once again. Draven finished undressing and sorted his clothes before returning to the now filled bath. He climbed the marble-like steps and lowered himself into the steam and water an inch at a time until the water covered his bare chest. He half-swam to the opposing side of the circle and laid his head back. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the steam, allowing the scent of the herbal oils and the luxurious Reshadan bath lotions to suffuse his thoughts. When he began running the bath, he was tired but given the news he had received he found himself with the unsettling sensation of his muscles feeling defeated while his mind was invigorated.

He breathed in again. He focused on the breath, felt it in every part of himself, let it consume him. Holding it for a moment he could sense his entire being at once before exhaling. He repeated the exercise for several minutes, but his mind kept returning to Master Kenobi and his battle with the elusive General Grievous. 

Opening his eyes, a sudden whim took him. Draven lifted his bubble covered hand from the water and seemed to reach out towards the archway. His dark eyebrows grew close and the muscles along the lines of his face seemed to tense. After a moment, his lightsaber floated around the corner, through the archway, and seemingly delivered itself into his outstretched hand. He looked at the hilt; a long metallic cylindrical device with durasteel inlay and intricate scrollwork along the whole assembly on the side there was a large dial which doubled as a sliding switch. Pointing the weapon away from himself and into the dimly lit room he pushed the dial upwards. A bright green light crackled in to being as the lightsaber blade extended from the tip of the hilt, reflecting off the water and dappling the marble walls with colour. A low hum emanated from the blade as Draven moved it slowly through the air in front of himself. He found himself oddly entranced by the weapon. He had built it himself so It was a wonder that there was any mystery left for him to find but he couldn’t bring himself to look away as he twisted the blade this way and that.

By the time he turned off the blade the water had cooled significantly. Standing with the water running off he once again extended his hand and the lightsaber rushed beyond his sight in the direction it had come. He stepped down from the bath and towelled himself down before walking slowly to the bed trying desperately not to think of the imminent return of peace and his successful return to Coruscant.


	2. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of chaos, Padawan Draven Seris races against the clock to escape betrayal, and the collapse of the Jedi

Draven awoke in darkness. His first sense was of silence; an unnatural stillness which permeated not just everything in the room but the space between. It was as if the force were suddenly strained like a string on an instrument. His second sensation was of coldness. His room had one large window but that was closed, yet he felt that cold as keenly as if he stood bare against a blizzard.

He moved slowly off the bed but still he heard nothing, not the rustle of the sheets, nor the sound of his feet as they met the floor. His mind listened for the force, the tension that now so mutely occupied his waking mind. Standing now, he slowly moved towards the window, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He reached his hand towards the controls to the side of the panes, the glass swung slowly outwards revealing…

Calm.

Sound returned in the form of a soft breeze stirring the needles of distant trees on the opposing mountain side, the valley between was bathed in a soft moonlight. Distantly, Draven caught sight of a nightbird on the wind flying as if it wished to reach the very moons themselves. He breathed deeply of the night, ill thoughts receding rapidly.

That’s when the screaming started.

First came a cry seemingly from behind his right shoulder; a shocked, pained sound that spun him in place. He looked for the noise to find nothing. Draven’s stomach tightened. Then came another seemingly from the bathroom. Rushing to the archway he looked into the deepened night and found the room empty once again.

Next came the pain. His shoulder began to burn as if a coal had been placed inside him. Rushing to the mirror he turned his shoulder into the moonlight; he would have said he was unharmed but for the agony. Then his eyes locked with his reflection’s and he found himself not in his room but in a deeper darkness.

Draven now stood in a void of black and cold. He turned but saw no change, he only felt the sensation of turning. He looked down to his hands to see them grey and out of focus, the rest of his body too, noting he was still without clothes. He was unsure whether he was or wasn’t in his room or a somehow different place altogether. Then the blackness broke, and he saw a jedi for a second, falling as if injured before they faded back into the ether. A few seconds passed then another jedi, a Rhodian, appeared; lightsaber high as if for battle before blaster bolts struck him in the back repeatedly. A steady succession of similar images began to manifest before him, one after another: faster, faster, faster. Soon his mind was overcome with the sights of a thousand robed figures falling before him, toward him, unto him.

The sound of his communicator beeping dragged him back to the mirror. He was sweating heavily as he snatched up the device. He began speaking as he clicked to answer.

“Master, what’s happening, are you-”

“No time for that now, if you’re talking then you’re still alive!” Fopava shouted. The sounds of blaster fire and screaming came through the background of her comm channel. “Draven, you need to get out of there, get to safety! The Clones have-” The communicator cut to static briefly before falling entirely silent. Draven smacked the tool and clicked the transmitter.

“Master?!” His voice cracked as he shouted, “Master, come in!” but no reply came. The tool sat in his hand as indifferent as any inanimate object could be.

Draven’s thoughts began to race. Something terrible was happening to the jedi, and it was happening at this very moment throughout the galaxy. The screams he’d heard, the… bodies. A convulsion began in his throat which he found difficult to suppress. A brief conflict occurred within him which he believed he had won when the convulsion subsided, only for his breathing to come suddenly short and desperate. He dropped to his knee; one hand shot out to the desk for support. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the images of those jedi falling flashing through his mind over and over. He could feel his control slipping.

He shut it down.

Draven’s training kicked in fiercely. He closed his eyes and pictured the air rushing in and out of his body: he slowed it. The sickening feeling building in his stomach: quelled. He relaxed his muscles like a practiced artist. In his mind the process took some time but in reality, the process took him a few mere seconds. His eyes flashed open.

He stood quickly and moved around the desk while his hand motioned toward the dresser behind him, pulling several garments to him. He dressed quickly: tunic, wrappings, leggings, belt, boots, bracers, a short cloak with a hood. In short: a jedi. From the desk he collected what little equipment he had at his disposal ending with his lightsaber which he fastened to its belt strap at his waist.

He was fastening his hair back with a leather band when he felt footfalls careering towards his door from the other side. Waving his hand, he engaged the locking mechanism from across the room. He began walking towards the large window, still open, when he heard the door comm chime. He stopped. His masters interrupted words rand in his ears once again; he didn’t know how or why but her urgency rang through. Jedi were being killed en masse, and it had something to do with the clones.

“Commander, we’ve got a security breach in progress, we need you!” Piercer’s voice hailed over the door comm. His voice sounded urgent, driven even. It certainly fit the situation he described. Unfortunately, Draven knew that had this been true they would have raised him on his communicator; not to mention the entire clone squad would never have come to collect him in such a circumstance.

“Commander! You must come with us now!” Piercer ordered again. Draven quickly climbed on to the window’s sill. A high-pitched whirring began to emanate from the door, almost certainly explosives. He stuck his head into the night and saw the pattern of the stones above his window arch. The pitch of the whirring increased to an almost unbearable pitch, and Draven leapt back into the night.

***

Pushing off from the sill he went directly back at first, but already he was at work in his mind. He felt every inch of his body, felt the force suffusing him. He directed it upwards. His body moved upwards through the air and towards the wall of the floor above his window. He was inches above his window when the explosion resounded from below. He could still feel the vibration in the wall-face when he landed. He pulled upwards with his arms and projected himself with the force again aiming for another window further up. His concentration was strained to its absolute limits when one hand managed to grasp the lip of the windowsill. He hung for a moment breathing heavily before swinging his other hand to the sill and heaving himself upward. He was all but a foot over the sill when a call came out from below.

“He’s scaled the wall!” A clone shouted. The chase was on.

Draven stood and pulled his elbow back before rushing it towards the glass, concentrating the air ahead with the force. The glass exploded inwards without his elbow ever making contact. He jumped down from the sill, boots crunching glass fragments as they struck the ground, and began to run. He rounded a corner onto an empty corridor, heading away from the stairs he knew the clones would need to take to reach his position. His boots echoed through the webbed marble hallway as he went, heart pounding in his ears. He rounded another corner, which entered on to an antechamber, also empty; he needed to reach the far end of the floor before he could risk descending again. He kept running.

Approaching another corner Draven slowed. His breathing was heavy, but he attempted to quieten it. In order to reach the other end of the floor before the clones could cut him off, he would need to go past the Comtesse’s rooms. Normally there would be guards but he hoped that the explosion below might have drawn them away. There was no way for him to know how the Reshadan would react to the current situation. For all Draven knew they were coordinating with the clones.

Slowly, he turned his head around the corner. Two tall Reshadan guards stood before the Comtesse’s quarters in full armour, long rifles raised in readiness.

 _Dammit,_ Draven thought pulling himself back behind the corner. He did not have this time to waste. If possible, he did not want to harm the Reshadan but if they proved hostile… Readying that familiar state of enforced calm he stood, drew his ornate lightsaber hilt and walked calmly round the corner.

He was three paces from his hiding spot when the closest guard’s head flicked round almost as quickly as his rifle. In that split second of delay Draven’s saber ignited; erupting from the hilt with a loud thrumming that was the very edge of life and death. The Reshadan fired three shots in a quick burst, two of which went wide in his rush to pull the trigger. The last though made for a glancing hit towards Draven’s shoulder. The saber arced cleanly at an angle along the blaster bolt’s path reflecting it towards the wall of the hallway. Draven finished his manoeuvre with a flourish and made ready to dash when a cry came from behind the clearly terrified guard.

“CEASE FIRE!” The other Reshadan came from behind his trigger-happy compatriot and pulled the rifle from him, “It’s the Jedi, you fool! Check your fire!”. Draven remained in a half crouch, his lightsaber extending behind him at the ready. This could be a deception of some kind, now was not a time for chances.

“Master Jedi, please you must-“ Draven cut him off.

“What are your orders?” Draven spoke with power of the force, his voice commanding and backed by more than his tone. The soldier stopped and stared blankly for a moment; his mind in conflict with Draven’s own influence, his will ebbing away before responding.

“The captain of the guard ordered us to prevent any har to the Comtesse. He said that the clones have been given a directive of some kind that-“

“That may compromise all our security measures,” boomed a voice from the other end of the corridor. Draven turned to see Captain Talvik himself striding down the corridor. He was an imposing figure, even amongst his kin. “Hell of a mess you’ve gotten us in, Master Jedi: come with me.” Draven sensed no aggression from the officer. Convinced, he sheathed his weapon.

“Captain, my clones have-“

“Turned against you? Believe me, I’m aware, walk with me!” He made further down the corridor following Draven’s original path. “Presently we are in the process of directing you away from you as best we can, a costly ruse: speaking of…” Talvik raised his wrist and activated the comm on his bracer; Draven’s muscles tensed.

“Captain Piercer, we’re tracking the jedi’s movement through the fourth floor but he’s circumventing our troops somehow. We suspect he has made his way into the ventilation ducts. I suggest cutting off at the courtyard.”

“Roger that.” Came Piercer’s curt response. The voice crackling from the comm, so full of vehemence sounded alien to Draven’s ears; so completely divorced from Draven’s memories of ever-present laughter that he felt it impossible to reconcile the two as coming from the same person.

Talvik clicked the comm off.

“My orders are to bring you to the Comtesse’s saferooms, come.” They proceeded at pace through the marbled halls. Draven’s heartbeat resounded in his ears as they went.

“What is happening? Why have-“ Draven began but Talvik brooked no discussion.

“The Comtesse will explain.” He said.

Several ornate rooms and two flights of stairs they arrived at a set of solid yet unassuming doors. Talvik pressed his hand firmly against the door control for a few seconds before the reinforced doors withdrew and he ushered Draven in, though the captain did not follow. The doors closed shut and Draven found himself in the austere saferooms of the Comtesse.

Comms equipment and military terminals were the only furnishings, and though the room was relatively small compared to others in the palace it was filled with some thirty guards and specialists. Most important though was the Comtesse, in the centre of the room barking at her attendants before turning to face Draven.

“Padawan, quickly, we have no time.” She turned back to the comm display in front of her. Draven could feel his mind abuzz with a million thoughts and feelings once again, as he crossed the short space.

“Comtesse.” Draven said he started to bow when the Comtesse raised a terse hand.

“No time, Padawan, I shan’t say it again. The Grand Army of the Republic has turned on the Jedi, not just your clones, this is galaxy wide.” The Comtesse indicated toward her monitor which displayed comm chatter from throughout the front lines. They all showed what he had already sensed in his quarter’s mere minutes ago. His eyes saw it yet his mind…

“Why…” Draven gaped, “How…” The Comtesse indicated to one of her attendants who tapped at the controls.

“We Intercepted this message to your clone captain just before he mobilised his unit, it’s from the office of the supreme chancellor…” Before them, a hologram showed of a hooded figure that after a moment Draven recognised as the chancellor, though he seemed strange. He spoke:

“Captain Piercer, the time has come. Execute order 66.” After that short line, the message ended, and the chancellor vanished.

“Similar messages were transmitted simultaneously across the galaxy, and moments later comms told us that clones had begun executing Jedi wherever they were. That’s when we heard the explosion.” Draven’s head was reeling. How could this be? Why would this be happening?

“What… what does that even… what…” Draven felt like he was imploding.

“Padawan, you must focus.” The Comtesse spoke with the utmost urgency. Draven managed to drag a semblance of attention back to his face. “My guards cannot keep the clones fooled forever.”

“Why are you helping me?” Draven’s eyes narrowed; his voice suddenly harsh. The Comtesse stared back without a word. “You’re resisting the will of the chancellor to keep me alive… why?” A long tense moment of silence filled the room, every eye fell on the small space between Draven and the Comtesse. The Comtesse slowly closed that space until there were mere inches between herself and Draven. She leaned down towards his ear.

“In any other circumstance I would have your head for your insolence…” The Comtesse let the threat hang for a moment. “I have lived an awfully long time, Padawan, and suffice it to say I have more than a healthy respect for your order. It’s why I requested a Jedi for my protection in the first place. I owe both you, and your order a debt…” She turned away and sighed deeply and shook her heavy feathered head. “A debt that I am about to repay. As I said, we cannot conceal you for long, and I would prefer to not be branded a criminal myself. The only recourse that will reconcile my debt is for me to organise your escape in such a way so as to make the clones think you eluded my forces.”

The Comtesse turned to a display which showed the palace and its surrounding area. She tapped an area at the base of the outer wall.

“Now, there’s an escape corridor that lets out here, you must start there…”

***

The escape passage was lit only with emergency lights at intervals, so Draven had to squint for the door controls. After he spotted them, he raised his hand and held it hovering just above: waiting. He strained his ears towards the comm at his belt. Timing was crucial.

He breathed; deeply, rhythmically. His training flashed through his mind. His innumerable hours with Fopava on Corruscant, his training cruise on the venator at the start of the war, simulator droids firing stun bolts at him. It all seemed so redundant, and in its redundancy, he pushed it away. He emptied his mind of all images, the flood of them thinning to nothing, all sounds, all feelings until it was just him, his breath, and the force. He had prepared for this. His body and mind were ready. He ignited his saber and waited.

The comm chirped and his hand pushed. He was in motion. He immediately flashed his saber in a sweeping arc above his head as he pelted through the door, blocking a shot that he sensed before he heard. A rain of blaster fire hailed down from the palace walls, some shooting wide others on target. The latter Draven deflected as he sprinted down the slope, away from the walls. The slope was a mixture of compacted earth and dense brush grass, and made for sturdy enough footing, but any natural surface could be treacherous in the dark, especially while running for your life and deflecting heavy blaster fire. A tree line was a little over 500 metres distant, but the land was largely open between Draven and there. He would have to keep up the deadly show.

“He’s getting away!” Talvik’s voice boomed distantly, “Captain!” Draven’s senses flared. He jumped, spinning in mid-air as he twisted his saber across his torso with barely enough time to deflect the deadly sniper bolt that bore down on him, much less direct it anywhere useful. It hissed into the night as Draven alighted and took off with a renewed sense of urgency. That shot was Piercer all right. The man earned his name sniping battle droids through gun slits in troop transports and tanks. He’d even managed to blow a whole separatist tank by hitting an ammunition pile through a gun slit from two miles distant once. Failing to take down a single target on foot in the open at this distance, even a jedi, that would rancour.

Draven pushed his legs to the limits sprinting up a crest of jagged rock before flinging himself off the top, throwing himself as far as the force would carry him before the hitting the ground once again, boots pounding. Just a few more metres. Eighty. Fifty. Twenty-Five.

Again, the warning came, this time Draven was mid-pace. He twisted his body as his boot struck the ground and his other raised as he pivoted in a roundhouse motion, drawing his saber across his body. He reflected the shot, but the force of the blast knocked through his body from his saber hilt pushing him off balance. On the edge of his flexibility, he put all his power into his one point of contact and pushed off the floor into an airborne pirouette. He landed, not daring to stop, and pushed on. To a layman the whole display was a breath-taking display of acrobatics but any other jedi could have told you how close to death Draven had skated.

Finally, he made the tree line. He made sure to push forward through the undergrowth until there was a dense wall of woodland between him and the open before stopping to breathe. Jedi went through intense physical training all their lives but the physical stresses of the night so far along with the mortal danger and trauma were taking their toll. He crashed against a large trunk and heaved air in capacities he wasn’t previously aware he was capable. He closed his stinging eyes and let his legs loosen as he leaned against the trunk.

“Ten… Seconds…” He wheezed to himself before spluttering into cough. Sweat rolled from his tight hairline and he resumed gasping, gulping the cold night air. Opening his eyes, he wiped his forehead and pushed on. He started running on the forest floor, heading ever west in his headlong flight. After a minute or so though he started to bound off the trees, the force carrying him through the bowers; left to right, right to left. Minutes trudged by, and he almost permitted himself to entertain the notion that his hunters had broken off pursuit when he came across exactly what he was seeking: a long cliff ledge.

The Comtesse’s words rang in his ears again: “…from there you will need to follow the cliff northwards, heading down. Where the ledge meets the ground below you will find a clearing. That is your destination.” He raced carefully along the cliffs edge, weaving around rocks and unsteady areas. The drop was several hundred metres itself and the view would have been beautiful had he had the time to take it in. A minute or so later the cliff began to drop steadily, an easy descent. He could feel relief in his lungs, or at least a slight lessening of pain. It was in that moment he heard a sound he had been dreading.

Jetpack rockets.

They burst into silence from over the tree line from which Draven had just emerged. First one, closely followed by two more. The first flyer began to fire off shots from dual blaster pistols towards Draven. Drawing his saber, Draven swept it in smooth circles to his side, blocking some shots but most missed entirely given the distance and movement involved. He pushed himself faster than ever but after mere seconds the other two opened fire. Before long he became a moving latticework of lights; saber and blaster bolts flashing in a near constant barrage with the cliff face pounding to dust beneath his feet, jumping as the floor collapsed beneath him.

Draven’s reactions were running on pure instinct, he couldn’t keep this up and he knew it. Block, run, jump, dodge, block, reflect, sprint, jump. He would slip up eventually, and when he did, he would die. That’s when he saw it.

The clearing came into view at the foot of the ever-descending cliff face. It was another couple of hundred metres maybe but with this barrage it may as well have been on one of the moons. He needed another option.

He looked past the incoming blaster fire at the clones themselves. They were flying as close as they could to the cliff to limit Draven’s reaction time.

 _Okay, time for something Fopava wouldn’t approve of,_ Draven thought:

He jumped.

After a second of airborne blaster reflection Draven tightened his body into a straight line, arms outstretched as he tackled the middlemost clone mid-air lightsaber first. The two of them entered into a death roll careering towards the fast-approaching ground far below. The clone’s jet pack just about slowed their descent btu could not cope with sudden uncompensated weight of two. The clone’s body was limp as the lightsaber protruded from the other side of his body.

Unfortunately, Draven’s victory was overshadowed by the uncontrollable device on the clones back. Not ten metres from the ground he jumped again. He landed in a roll which became a heap. The clone’s corpse was less lucky. The jetpack exploded upon a tree, blowing the clone apart. Draven gave silent gratitude who didn’t know which of his comrades he’d just killed. He rolled up and ran for the clearing.

Past the last few trees, he came across what he was looking for: a sleek scout vessel, as small as you could fit a hyperdrive in, waited patiently for the Comtesse to escape her enemies in. Or, in this case, an inexplicably, quite accidentally, treasonous padawan. He practically slid along the hull until he felt the catch for the cockpit. Again, he heard jetpacks as he hurled himself into the opening cockpit and even as he was landing he pushed what he sensed to be the cockpit closure just as the blaster fire started. Five clones alighted in the clearing and began to blast at the vessel. The shields came on just in time, but there was a long moment of sustained fire while the engines booted.

Draven looked at their helmets. He knew each of them by their loadout and their markings. He knew that Piercer was shooting at him from the front with a cold, grim, heartless determination. He sensed nothing but contempt and duty from them, each and every one of them, his squad…

_Piercer…_

The engines booted and Draven flung the controls forward and he sped into the night, ever upwards, blaster fire on his coattails.

As he cleared atmo he engaged the navicom, set up the auto pilot. Breathed on long breath…

And wept…


End file.
